


Viral

by Wisteria_Leigh



Series: Prompted Works [24]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: And that's exactly what this is, Kid Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Sickfic, literally called "KidFic With Germs" in my Google Drive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 12:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisteria_Leigh/pseuds/Wisteria_Leigh
Summary: Kids are great at 4 things: 1) meltdowns at the most inconvenient times, 2) brutal honest, 3) making shit up, and 4) contracting any contagious thing within a mile radius.





	Viral

**Author's Note:**

> The same person who requested the last Parrish-Lynch Parenting Extravaganza fic ALSO requested "the hell that is preschool germs and the logistical nightmares they create" which, honestly..........it's like they know my brand or something....

Ronan is happy to be a stay-at-home dad. Truly. He loves running through the fields of their sprawling property with their daughter, loves to have a little helper in the garden, or when gathering eggs from the chickens. He likes watching her learn new things every day, likes being the one to  _ teach  _ her how to herd goats and which berries are ripe for picking and how to build a proper campfire for good s’mores and burning Uncle Gans’s hideous boat shoes. 

But even Super Dad Ronan Lynch needs some peace and quiet, and Maeve needs to interact with beings other than her fathers and the farm animals, because she’s started to cluck at the chickens a little  _ too  _ frequently for their liking. So they decide to send her to preschool. 

Maeve’s half-days at preschool are great, because she’s in a “rich and open environment for children to engage in imaginative play in order to facilitate their emotional, intellectual, social, and physical development” or, as Ronan calls it, “a good fucking place to go nuts for four hours.” Ronan gets a few hours alone, and Maeve gets to socialize, and Adam gets to sleep well knowing she’s being taught things other than pryotechniques and goat herding. 

Maeve’s half days at preschool are also awful, because it’s a rich and open environment for children to engage in the endless transference of germs. Germs that inevitably get brought back to their house via their sniffling, coughing, completely-unaware-of-proper-disease-prevention-tactics daughter. 

They should have known this particular cold was going to be a bad one, when half her preschool class is missing and even a teacher is out for the day. 

When Adam picks Maeve up on his way home from work, the not-sick teacher tells him that she was a little low energy today. “We’ve been cloroxing and cleaning as much as we can,” the teacher promises in her gentle, flowing I-spend-all-day-asking-children-how-they’re-feeling voice that always reminds Adam of a younger, less-psychic Persephone. “Hopefully she just needs a good, full night’s rest. Maybe a little bit of tea.” 

Adam watches while she grabs her backpack from her cubby. She looks fine from here, was fine enough this morning that Ronan didn’t say anything. His eyebrows furrow. “We’ll keep an eye on her,” he says. “Thanks.”

And they do. But nothing seems out of the ordinary. Maybe she’s yawning a little more, a little earlier, and maybe she’s a little more snuggly, but neither Ronan nor Adam are going to complain about their little girl demanding they cuddle together beneath a knit blanket on the couch while watching nature documentaries. 

####

It’s the obedience that sets off the alarms. 

Generally, Maeve is a good kid. She’s sweet, and smart, and likes to be helpful and likes to laugh. But sometimes it feels like her terrible twos turned into the terrible threes, which bled into the terrible fours, which will just...continue on an endless cycle until she’s terrible and 18 and Ronan will have to have the “listen  _ I  _ did this shit at your age but you are not allowed to” discussion with her that will end in shouting and door slamming and a real climax-of-a-coming-of-age-movie moment. 

Her independence streak gets her in trouble, rivaling both Ronan’s  _ and _ Adam’s worst selves combined. She doesn’t like to be told what to do, or how to do it. She’ll assist Adam and Ronan, absolutely, and is more than willing to help. But she has to do it on her own terms, when  _ she  _ wants to. Survival has meant crafting very specific ways of phrasing things in order to make her think it’s her idea, and therefore that she’s making the  _ choice  _ to do it. 

So when Adam’s tired and sloppy and makes the grave mistake of saying, “Maeve, please move your coloring off the table,” instead of framing it as a question, both he and Ronan brace themselves for the storm of attitude they’re sure is coming. 

But then, Maeve just...does it. Slides off the chair and gathers her stuff and puts it back in the cubby where it belongs. 

And that’s when they know they’re fucked. 

####

Day 1. 

Maeve wakes up sniffly and pale and way too docile. They call the preschool and tell them she’s sick, not feverish, but clearly starting to come down with something, and the preschool secretary - who honestly doesn’t sound very healthy herself - thanks them for being considerate and keeping her home, and the “unlike  _ some  _ people” goes unsaid. 

Maeve colors listlessly and is painfully apathetic when playing with her race car collection. She naps at least twice before lunch. Ronan makes her homemade soup, a recipe of Aurora’s, full of ginger and lemongrass to ease the pain of her throat and clear her sinuses, but honestly Maeve eats it like a robot and only finishes half her bowl and then goes back to the couch. 

Ronan puts a movie on for her. He checks on the farm. She’s asleep by the time he gets back. 

Adam comes home and thanks Ronan with many kisses for taking care of Maeve all day. They eat more homemade soup for dinner. Vegetable. Squash picked fresh from the garden. Adam and Ronan drink two glasses of Airborne each. 

Adam then kicks Ronan off-duty for the rest of the night. “Go sleep. Or dream. Or hang out in the barn for a bit, or go for a drive, or watch something full of violence and cursing that isn’t a G-rated animated film. Whatever. I don’t care. Just, go relax.”

Ronan does. Adam draws Maeve a bath with fancy oils that will clear her nose and soothe her growing aches, and puts her to bed, and tells Ronan that he’ll handle anything that happens during the night. 

Which is, of course, when the fever hits. 

Ronan’s half-asleep when he hears whimpering and static through the baby monitor and Adam slipping out of bed. He doesn’t feel, or hear, Adam come back to bed. Because Adam doesn’t. He spends all night in Maeve’s room, rewetting cold washcloths and combing his fingers through her hair and rubbing her back while he reads her story after story and tries to sing the songs Ronan hums to lull her to sleep, but he’s a shitty singer and Maeve’s too sick to go back to sleep, anyways. So he doesn’t sleep, not for more then handfuls of minutes at a time, when she also doses off, until she gets too hot or too cold or too itchy or too... _ sick _ , and wakes them both up and it starts all over again.   
  


####

An important point: this is not the first time Maeve has been sick. 

When she was just over a year old, she developed a nasty ear infection. Neither Ronan nor Adam remember much, because they were both so sleep-deprived they’re not entirely sure what was real and what was delirium. They both remember it being the worst few days of their lives. Unmaking and demonic possession inclusive. 

That’s an outlier, though. She’s had standard, run-of-the-mill colds before, too. She’s a kid, for Christ’s sake, and kids are great at 4 things: 1) meltdowns at the most inconvenient times, 2) brutal honest, 3) making shit up, and 4) contracting any contagious thing within a mile radius. 

Just because it’s  _ normal  _ doesn’t mean it’s not also a pain in the ass.

To be clear,  _ she’s  _ not the pain in the ass. Both Ronan and Adam can understand how feeling really shitty means you cry a lot and hate everything, so they give her a pass for being unpleasant. The pain in the ass is the fact that her being sick sends their whole parenting routine straight to hell: do not pass go, do not collect $200. All of Ronan’s meal prep plans, house repairs, farmwork, chores; Adam’s regimented schedule of post-work relaxing, family time, animal checks, and work that he should have left in the office but needs to get done so it’s happening at the kitchen table at 11pm...all of it: absolutely fucked. 

Survive. That’s all they can do. Survive, and hopefully emerge on the other side without becoming snotty, feverish, and wholly miserable themselves. 

####

Day 2.

“You feeling okay, love?” Ronan asks. He brushes her hair from her too-warm forehead.

Maeve shakes her head. Her lower lip trembles. 

“What hurts?” 

She shrugs, and that alone is a sure sign she feels like shit. Maeve can always find at least fourteen words to say what can--and often  _ should _ \--only be said in one. 

Ronan rubs her head for a little longer. “Let’s get you something that’ll make you feel a little better,” he says, leaving her with a kiss on her flushed cheeks. 

She’s been miserable since she woke up. Was probably miserable before that. Ronan is trying  _ really  _ hard to not lose his shit over the fact that she’s still running a fever, keeps reading online parenting advice just to remind himself that it’s fine - well, not fine, because she’s sick which sucks for everyone - that it’s only a problem if it gets too high (it hasn’t) or isn’t affected by fever reducers (it is) or lasts for more than five days, that it’s just a bad cold, that if any other classmates had been hospitalized they would have heard about it. 

All he can do is keep feeding her Dayquil and keep her hydrated and provide her with an endless supply of tissues. 

Adam comes home. They eat homemade soup. He tells Ronan he’s taking the night shift again. 

“Hell no. You look like a zombie,” Ronan says. 

Adam’s pouring himself a cup of coffee. “I have work to do. I’ll be up, anyways. It’s fine.”

“Your sleep schedule is,” Ronan checks that Maeve’s not in earshot, “fucked. Did you even sleep last night?”

“I’ve got to get this shit done.” He’s already made his decision, and has his heels dug so deep he’s growing roots. 

“You won’t get it done if you’re dealing with Maeve.”

“We’ll give her meds, she’ll sleep at least some of the night, it will be  _ fine,  _ Lynch.”

Ronan doesn’t believe him. Ronan definitely notices how Adam winces, just a bit, when he swallows his first sip of coffee. But Ronan is tired as fuck, and maybe it’s just because the coffee was piping hot, and honestly, trying to tell Adam what to do is about as effective as demanding the earth reverse its orbit, and arguing is just -  _ so  _ much work. 

So Adam stays up, works on his cases, snuggles their poor, sick daughter when she starts to cry, and Ronan doesn’t think he ever comes to bed. 

####

Day 3. 

Ronan truly didn’t know the human body - especially one as small as Maeve’s - could hold  _ so much snot _ . 

She’s still feverish, is sneezing and coughing and sniffling more than  _ breathing  _ at this point, and there’s not enough Lysol in the world to prevent this house from becoming a viral incubator. Ronan gave up on sanitation 19 hours ago. 

He had to call Maeve’s babysitter’s father this morning and ask if someone could come and feed the animals for him, because Maeve looked ready to burst into tears and mucus after Adam left for work and Ronan put his boots on to go outside, and Ronan can deal with a lot of things, but a screaming four-year-old who’s already having the worst time of her life is too much for his soft heart to handle. 

Their neighbors - nice people, good people, not homophobic-pieces-of-shit-in-bumfuck-Western-Maryland people - come by and do as asked, even offer to check back in the afternoon, which Ronan cannot thank them enough for, and the father waves his hand in clear dismissal when Ronan offers to pay them. “I know full well what it’s like, having a sick kid. Had plenty of it in my day. Don’t you worry about it.” 

Ronan puts them on the delivery list for the next time he makes jam or cans some vegetables. It’s the least he can do. 

He feeds her leftover soup and medicine and lets her eat on the sofa, a privilege only bestowed upon those who are sick, and watches movies with her while getting her orange juice and water and sometimes ice cream because he knows it will help her throat feel less like she swallowed a cheese grater. 

If he’s out of eyesight for more than a few minutes at a time, the separation anxiety kicks in and she freaks the fuck out. It takes three hours to do dishes. Five to do laundry. Cooking is basically out of the question. He doesn’t even  _ try  _ to shower or shave. 

Adam comes home and immediately goes upstairs to change out of his work clothes and into fashion more suitable for handling a snotty four year old. By the time Ronan has gotten Maeve on couch, with the same movie she begged for a few hours ago, wrapped in a blanket burrito with her two stuffed animals, and as full of Children’s Nyquil as she can be, Adam is changed and dead asleep, curled up on their bed and drooling, even. 

Ronan can’t even blame him, because honestly he’d love to do the same. He doesn’t. 

Instead, he drinks another cup of coffee and makes chicken & stars soups from a can, because Maeve cannot tell the difference and Adam’s asleep and Ronan just doesn’t give a shit anymore. It tastes  _ fine,  _ and Maeve eats half of her little portion, which is more than Ronan expected, and then passes out before the movie’s even half done, leaving Ronan alone with his  _ just fine  _ soup and another hour of some animated sing-a-long. It feels more like three years before it’s finally over, which is when Maeve wakes up, and asks to watch it all  _ again _ , and Ronan can’t say no to her groggy, snotty, miserable little face, and as he resigns himself to a triple feature he hears the early rattles of a serious cough and a heavy sniffle from -  _ not  _ Maeve. But from upstairs. 

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. 

Going upstairs is like the start of a bad sitcom, because sitcoms  _ always  _ have an episode where someone gets sick and then their caretakers get sick and then the germaphobic sibling gets sick and then they’re all in bathrobes and PJs on the couch complaining about how sick they all are, while a character either 1) sneaks out and goes to their must-see event and/or goes to work sick because that’s how sitcoms make drama. Hard to tell, honestly. 

He knows what he’s going to find at the top of the stairs. He knows  _ exactly  _ what that coughing means. But here he his, dragging his feet, like he’s building drama in this bad TV show which is apparently just his  _ life _ . And sure enough, the door creaks open, and Adam is sitting on the edge of the bed, looking as though standing up is as great a task as Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. His face is pale and dark circles rim his eyes, his hair disheveled from his nap and probably also because the Next Plague Victim in the Big Reveal  _ always  _ has disheveled hair and Ronan is trapped in this televised nightmare like it’s the fucking Truman Show. 

Ronan presses a kiss to Adam’s forehead and it’s far too warm. “You too?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. He combs his fingers through Adam’s hair, careful not to pull on the tangles. 

Adam nods, and swallows with a grimace. “Felt weird yesterday, only got worse at work.”

“How bad?”

“I feel like absolute shit.”

Ronan laughs a little, because honestly, what the fuck else is he supposed to do right now. “Stay in bed, then,” he says, and kisses Adam’s forehead once more. 

“No. I can handle Maeve. You’ve been with her all day--”

“That doesn’t matter. Go to sleep.”

“It’s the same germs, it’s fine.”

“Lay the fuck down.”

“I can handle it.”

“Lay-” he grips Adam’s shoulders “-the fuck-” and pushes him back into the pillows of the bed, “-down.”

Adam sighs, but shimmies under the covers when Ronan offers. Reluctant surrender. Another goddamn sitcom trope. 

“Are you sure?” Adam asks, grabbing a tissue from the box Ronan brings to the bedside table. 

“Absolutely. Rest. Want soup? I’ll bring you soup.”

“No soup,” Adam says. “Water would be good. A gallon of orange juice, maybe.”

“I bet I can rig an IV of Airborne for you.”

“I think it’s too late for me. You might need it, though.” And Adam looks genuinely apologetic. “Sor--”

“Don’t,” Ronan says. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“I--”

“Shut up. I mean it.” 

Adam rolls his eyes. 

“You done?” Ronan asks. “Good. Go to bed.”

He flicks off the lights, and thanks his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ that they bought the good mattress for the guest room. 

####

There’s a moment, late at night, or maybe early in the morning, when Ronan is not really awake but definitely not asleep, when he hears muffled, sniffling tears and bare feet padding down the hallway upstairs. And just like that, he’s wide awake, ready to hop out of bed and scoop Maeve up in his arms and hold her tight to protect her from whatever nightmares or bad feelings or ickiness is plaguing his poor, feverish little girl, and then - 

“Shh, hey, it’s okay. C’mere, little bug.” 

Adam’s thready voice, rough with sleep and cracking under the strain of his cold; the grunt of bending over and lifting up the growing four-year-old; “what’s wrong, huh?”

Maeve can’t talk anymore, the poor thing, her voice is nothing but squeaks and wisps of noise that Ronan can’t hear, but he does hear Adam “hmm” and “oh no” and “that sounds really scary” in reply to whatever she’s telling him. 

Adam coughs and says, “want to sleep with me for a little bit?” and Maeve must agree because Ronan hears the door shut and the bed shift and then the house is quiet once again. 

####

Day 1. Again. 

Ronan is up before either of his invalids, because he’s always up at the asscrack of dawn because he’s a fucking  _ farmer  _ and that’s what fucking farmers  _ do.  _ Chickens and goats and their angry, crotchety horse can wait an extra few minutes, though. Ronan makes his coffee and eats half a Poptart and creeps upstairs, very slowly, very quietly, and he very slowly, very quietly, opens the door to the master, where Adam is curled into a tight ball under the covers and Maeve is starfished beside him, both still sound asleep, both congested and snoring, both pale and sweaty and flushed from fevers. 

Ronan refills Adam’s water glass. He brings Maeve a sippy cup of water, too. He makes sure the baby monitor is turned on. He takes the monitor from Maeve’s room and hooks it to his back pocket. 

It’s a brisk 45 degree November morning, and he’s wearing the same shorts he wore yesterday, because rummaging through his piles of half-clean clothes strategically erected around their bedroom (“‘strategic’ my ass,” Adam would say, air quotes inclusive) to find a pair of jeans seems like a good way to wake up two very grumpy and very snotty contagion machines. Also, why bother changing if he’s about to go muck around in animal shit? That wastes two pairs of clothes he then has to wash which, when he’s the one in charge of laundry, sounds like a great way to do more work which is the  _ opposite  _ of Ronan Lynch’s general philosophy. 

He pulls on his flannel coat and tugs a beanie over his head for good measure, because an overheated upper body with balance out a cold lower body, or - something like that. Look, Ronan has never claimed to be the smart one in this marriage. 

The chickens and goats and the angry old horse literally could not give fewer shits that Ronan is a couple minutes past sunrise for their feeding. And really, it’s  _ such  _ a boost to his self-esteem to know none of them care about him in the slightest. 

The baby monitor stays quiet while he works. All through feeding, through cleaning the stalls, through refilling hay bales and water troughs, through collecting eggs and chopping more firewood and even through his second cup of coffee once the sun is properly risen and it’s a far more acceptable hour to be up. 

On a normal morning, when everyone is healthy, Ronan would come through the back door and be greeted by a fresh pot of coffee brewed by Adam, who would kiss him on the cheek and grumble a half-awake “good mornin” that never ceases to send Ronan’s heart into his throat. Adam would stir craisins into his bland oatmeal and direct Ronan to the Poptarts waiting, perfect golden brown, in the sleeves of the toaster, while Maeve kneels on her barstool chair (third from the left, closest to the coffee pot and the cookie jar) at the kitchen peninsula - because she’s not  _ quite  _ tall enough to reach the countertop and hates the booster seat - eating one-third of her Cheerios and making abstract art with the other two-thirds. 

Also, the birds would be singing and the sun would shining because Ronan’s basically living the happy fucking ending of a damn romcom. 

Today the birds are still singing and the sun is still shining, but they can both go fuck themselves, because the joy is wasted on Ronan, alone, in an empty kitchen, brewing his own damn coffee and toasting his own Poptarts (which he burns, because  _ fuck him,  _ he guesses) while the two loves of his life sleep off this Preschool Hell-Plague. 

Maeve trudges down the stairs as Ronan is rinsing his mug and brushing blackened crumbs from his flannel. Her brown curls are wild from restless sleep and she’s clearly still congested, but she’s got some color back in her face and her eyes look a bit brighter. 

“Good morning, love,” Ronan says. She grumbles in reply, rubbing her eyes and holding her stuffed cat close. Ronan kneels in front of her and rests a hand against her forehead, and he thinks ( _ prays _ ) her fever is broken. “You feeling better?” he asks. She nods. “You sleep in our bed last night?” She nods again. “Glad you kept Daddy company for me.”

“He’s sick,” she says. Not a question. Her little voice is still raspy and weak, but it’s bouncing back. 

“Yeah.”

“Should he watch a movie, too?”

“If he wants to.”

“That’ll make him better. It made me better.”

Ah. Kid logic. “Yeah, that might help a little bit. But we’ll see what he wants to do. Is he awake?”

Maeve shakes her head. 

“Okay. Want some food?” 

She nods. 

He gives her a bowl of Cheerios and lets her sit on the couch in her blanket nest to eat them, and he leaves her with a kiss on the forehead while the opening credits roll. 

Adam is asleep with his phone loose in his grip. Ronan runs a hand through his hair, still tangled and a hell of a mess, and Adam grimaces and stirs. “Hey,” Ronan says softly. Adam groans. He’s still too warm to the touch. “You’re not going to work.” It’s not a question. 

Adam shakes his head. “Called in sick.” He coughs and rolls over onto his back, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“Good.” Ronan hands him a cup of Dayquil. He takes it and chases it with a gulp of water. 

“Where’s Maeve? She okay?”

“Downstairs. Still sick, but better.”

Adam hums. He’s already sliding back into sleep. Ronan rubs his head once more and lets him be. 

He plugs the phone in on the way out. 

  
  


###

  
  


It’s late morning when Ronan hears Adam stirring upstairs, “stirring” meaning hacking up a lung. He’s sitting up in bed, papers spread around him, looking pale and feverish and basically like death and definitely like he shouldn’t be awake and  _ doing work. _

“News flash: the point of taking a sick day is to fucking rest, Parrish,” Ronan says. 

“I’ve slept for 12 hours already,” Adam says with a thick sniffle. He’s squinting, even while wearing his glasses (he needs them to read now, because  _ apparently  _ they’re getting  _ old _ . Gross. Or maybe reading 5pt font case briefs at 2am by flashlight is a bad habit to start in your 20s.) “I feel like shit but I can’t sleep anymore. So might as well…” he gestures to his notes. 

“Need anything?” 

Adam’s breath hitches, and he sneezes into the crook of his elbow. “Ugh. Yes.” He grabs a few tissues from the box on the nightstand. “Can you get me more water?”

Ronan does. He rests his palm on Adam’s forehead. “Bad?” Adam rasps, head leaning back against the headboard as Ronan frowns. His cheeks are as flushed as his red Harvard t-shirt. 

“Definitely not good.”

Adam groans. 

“Daddy?” Maeve stands in the doorway, holding her stuffed cat tight. 

“Hi, little bug. Heard you’re feeling better,” Adam says, helping her up onto the bed as she tries to climb up the edge. 

“You’re sick.”

“Yes.”

“You should watch a movie.”

Adam’s brow furrows. “Why’s that?”

“Make you feel better.”

Adam looks from Maeve, snuggling into his side, to Ronan, sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“She thinks TV helped her get better,” Ronan says. 

“Ah.”

“Want to?” she asks. 

Adam looks at the piles of papers in front of him, and sighs. “Yeah. Let’s do that.” 

  
  


#####

  
  


Rain patters against the windows, sunny morning giving way to a cold and rainy afternoon. One movie rolled into two, which became three, and Adam’s only touched his stack of work once. Maeve is asleep between the two of them. 

“I think I gave her nyquil,” Ronan notes. “Whoops.”

“Rest is good. Get her back to school sooner,” Adam says, sipping at his tea. 

“You going in to work tomorrow?” 

Adam coughs. “No. They told me to stay home the rest of the week.”

“And you’re going to listen to them? Who the fuck are you anymore, Parrish? It’s like a married a stranger.”

Adam smiles and shoves Ronan’s shoulder. “Jerk.” 

Ronan laughs. 

“Surprised you haven’t gotten sick yet,” Adam says, wiping Maeve’s runny nose with a tissue. “Honestly, she’s so snotty, it’s both incredible and horrifying.” 

“I’ve got immunity like you wouldn’t fucking believe.”

“Probably all that dirt you ate as a kid.”

“I know you said that to make fun of me, but it’s true. I ate a lot of fucking dirt as a kid.” 

Adam laughs, and they fall back into silence. He runs his fingers through Maeve’s tangled curls.

“Could you imagine having two of them? Trading germs back and forth?” Adam says softly. 

“A nightmare. We’d never be healthy again.” 

Ronan looks at Adam, and Adam looks at Ronan. 

“You want another one, don’t you,” Adam says, and it’s not a question. 

“You do, too,” Ronan answers, and it’s not a question. 

They smile. “Maeve would like that. _I_ would like that,” Ronan says. 

“Yeah. Me too,” Adam admits, and maybe it’s just the meds, but he sounds more lucid than he has all day. 

“Heal first. Adoption, second,” Ronan says. 

“Deal.”

Maeve wakes up with a big stretch and a yawn. 

“Feeling better lo--” Ronan’s breath hitches. 

“Uh-oh,” Maeve says. 

Ronan sneezes. 

Adam smiles fatalistically, and rubs the back of Ronan’s neck. “Should've eaten more dirt.”


End file.
